Youghal greeted Lady Caroline and subsided gracefully into a chair
well in the front of the box. A buzz of recognition rippled slowly

across the house.
"For the Government to fall on a matter of conscience," he said,

"would be like a man cutting himself with a safety razor."
Lady Caroline purred a gentle approval.

"I'm afraid it's true, Archdeacon," she said.
No one can effectively" target="_blank" title="ad.有效地">effectively defend a Government when it's been in office

several years. The Archdeacon took refuge in light skirmishing.
"I believe Lady Caroline sees the makings of a great Socialist

statesman in you, Youghal," he observed.
"Great Socialist statesmen aren't made, they're stillborn," replied

Youghal.
"What is the play about to-night?" asked a pale young woman who had

taken no part in the talk.
"I don't know," said Lady Caroline, "but I hope it's dull. If

there is any brilliant conversation in it I shall burst into
tears."

In the front row of the upper circle a woman with a restless
starling-voice was discussing the work of a temporarily fashionable

composer, chiefly in relation to her own emotions, which she seemed
to think might prove generally interesting to those around her.

"Whenever I hear his music I feel that I want to go up into a
mountain and pray. Can you understand that feeling?"

The girl to whom she was unburdening herself shook her head.
"You see, I've heard his music chiefly in Switzerland, and we were

up among the mountains all the time, so it wouldn't have made any
difference."

"In that case," said the woman, who seemed to have emergency
emotions to suit all geographical conditions, "I should have wanted

to be in a great silent plain by the side of a rushing river."
"What I think is so splendid about his music - " commenced another

starling-voice on the further side of the girl. Like sheep that
feed greedily before the coming of a storm the starling-voices

seemed impelled to extra effort by the knowledge of four imminent
intervals of acting during which they would be hushed into

constrained silence.
In the back row of the dress circle a late-comer, after a cursory

glance at the programme, had settled down into a comfortable
narrative, which was evidently the resumed thread of an unfinished

taxi-drive monologue.
"We all said 'it can't be Captain Parminter, because he's always

been sweet on Joan,' and then Emily said - "
The curtain went up, and Emily's contribution to the discussion had

to be held over till the entr'acte.
The play promised to be a success. The author, avoiding the

pitfall of brilliancy, had aimed at being interesting and as far as
possible, bearing in mind that his play was a comedy, he had

striven to be amusing. Above all he had remembered that in the
laws of stage proportions it is permissible and generally desirable

that the part should be greater than the whole; hence he had been
careful to give the leading lady such a clear and commanding lead

over the other characters of the play that it was impossible for
any of them ever to get on level terms with her. The action of the

piece was now and then delayed thereby, but the duration of its run
would be materially prolonged.

The curtain came down on the first act amid an encouraging
instalment of applause, and the audience turned its back on the

stage and began to take a renewed interest in itself. The
authoress of "The Woman who wished it was Wednesday" had swept like

a convalescent whirlwind, subdued but potentially tempestuous, into
Lady Caroline's box.

"I've just trodden with all my weight on the foot of an eminent
publisher as I was leaving my seat," she cried, with a peal of

delighted laughter. "He was such a dear about it; I said I hoped I
hadn't hurt him, and he said, 'I suppose you think, who drives hard

bargains should himself be hard.' Wasn't it pet-lamb of him?"
"I've never trodden on a pet lamb," said Lady Caroline, "so I've no

idea what its behaviour would be under the circumstances."
"Tell me," said the authoress, coming to the front of the box, the

better to survey the house, and perhaps also with a charitable
desire to make things easy for those who might pardonably wish to

survey her, "tell me, please, where is the girl sitting whom
Courtenay Youghal is engaged to?"

Elaine was pointed out to her, sitting in the fourth row of the
stalls, on the opposite side of the house to where Comus had his

seat. Once during the interval she had turned to give him a
friendly nod of recognition as he stood in one of the side

gangways, but he was absorbed at the moment in looking at himself
in the glass panel. The grave brown eyes and the mocking green-

grey ones had looked their last into each other's depths.
For Comus this first-night performance, with its brilliant

gathering of spectators, its groups and coteries of lively talkers,
even its counterfoil of dull chatterers, its pervading atmosphere

of stage and social movement, and its intruding undercurrent of
political flutter, all this composed a tragedy in which he was the

chief character. It was the life he knew and loved and basked in,
and it was the life he was leaving. It would go on reproducing

itself again and again, with its stage interest and social interest
and intruding outside interests, with the same lively chattering

crowd, the people who had done things being pointed out by people
who recognised them to people who didn't - it would all go on with

unflagging animation and sparkle and enjoyment, and for him it
would have stopped utterly. He would be in some unheard-of sun-

blistered wilderness, where natives and pariah dogs and raucous-
throated crows fringed round mockingly on one's loneliness, where

one rode for sweltering miles for the chance of meeting a collector
or police officer, with whom most likely on closer acquaintance one

had hardly two ideas in common, where female society was
represented at long intervals by some climate-withered woman

missionary or official's wife, where food and sickness and
veterinary lore became at last the three outstanding subjects on

which the mind settled or rather sank. That was the life he
foresaw and dreaded, and that was the life he was going to. For a

boy who went out to it from the dulness of some country rectory,
from a neighbourhood where a flower show and a cricket match formed

the social landmarks of the year, the feeling of exile might not be
very crushing, might indeed be lost in the sense of change and

adventure. But Comus had lived too thoroughly in the centre of
things to regard life in a backwater as anything else than

stagnation, and stagnation while one is young he justly regarded as
an offence against nature and reason, in keeping with the perverted

mockery that sends decrepit invalids touring painfully about the
world and shuts panthers up in narrow cages. He was being put

aside, as a wine is put aside, but to deteriorate instead of
gaining in the process, to lose the best time of his youth and

health and good looks in a world where youth and health and good
looks count for much and where time never returns lost possessions.

And thus, as the curtain swept down on the close of each act, Comus
felt a sense of depression and deprivation sweep down on himself;

bitterly he watched his last evening of social gaiety slipping away
to its end. In less than an hour it would be over; in a few

months' time it would be an unreal memory.
In the third interval, as he gazed round at the chattering house,

someone touched him on the arm. It was Lady Veula Croot.
"I suppose in a week's time you'll be on the high seas," she said.

"I'm coming to your farewell dinner, you know; your mother has just
asked me. I'm not going to talk the usual rot to you about how

much you will like it and so on. I sometimes think that one of the
advantages of Hell will be that no one will have the impertinence

to point out to you that you're really better off than you would be